Clockwork
by Mizuno-Suzuka
Summary: "I knew as soon as I'd opened my eyes today was going to be more miserable than any other day this year. But perhaps I was just duly prejudiced. After all, today was the mark of yet another reaping." - The Hunger Games, from Peeta's point of view. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

THE HUNGER GAMES

Peeta's POV

It was hot this morning.

I knew as soon as I'd opened my eyes today was going to be more miserable than any other day this year. But perhaps I was just duly prejudiced. After all, today was the mark of yet another reaping.

The annual Hunger Games was a scourge, a plight against the districts that festered and burst in the hearts of many of the districts. Today, they would choose two of us, one male, one female, to destroy twenty three other children in a ruthless game of cat and mouse that had taken place for nearly three quarters of a century.

My brothers are already downstairs, halfway out the door when I stepped off the last stair. My mother barely passes a glance in my direction, but says, "Take your breakfast and get to the mill. You have work to do. Your brothers have already begun to walk over." I know they have. They make it a point to get out of the house as quickly as possible. Every morning. Like clockwork. This was the usual exchange between my mother and I. It matters very little to her about today's date. Most people tend to put it out of their minds I suppose. Safer that way.

I take the bread, hard like a rock, and make a mental note to heat it over the fire to soften it before I attempt to eat it. I'm pretty good at making little fires right outside the mill this time of day. It's a ritual that is a necessity when it comes to food. Otherwise I'd have several broken teeth and a terribly bad attitude.

The mill wasn't a far walk, and even if it was, it was never hard to catch up to my brothers. Neither of them walked particularly fast, meandering slowly, wishing to waste as much time as possible to avoid having to slave over the hot stove with father.

Personally, I never minded working with him. It was more peaceful than working with my mother, whose garishness usually ended with my face on the bad end of her hand or some cooking utensil, whichever was easier accessed.

However my brothers were not so enthused. Glenn, fair haired with the same striking blue eyes as the rest of us, was a rowdy sort. More apt to want to work with his hands in hard labor. He was usually the one to work with my father, though when he could he went to the mines to work, preferring the deep silent catacombs to the smoldering heat of the oven. I couldn't really fathom it, being it always seemed to me like such a dismal job. But he liked it so, who was I to argue it with him?

Collin was the odd one of the three of us. He neither liked to labor hard in the mines, or in fact, work with his hands at all. Glenn always joked that Collin could be mistaken for not being a Mellark, were it not for his blue eyes that mirrored our own. His hair was almost brown it was so dark, and he was very thin compared to Glenn and I, who had earned our sturdiness from hours carrying heavy bags and manual labor around the shop.

Collin preferred to help the goat herder on the other side of the street. Why, I'll never understand, for the smell itself was enough to repulse most people to stay a safe distance away. But then, Collin wasn't quite like the rest of us. Though, he was still my brother, and it would be a strange world without him.

Glenn was boisterous this day. He was newly nineteen and now immune to the reaping. His whole demeanor made it clear that he was proud of that, if not relieved. As were the rest of us. For him. He'd escaped the games.

Collin and I were not so lucky. I, at sixteen, and he as nearly eighteen, we would both have at least this year to have our luck run dry. I would have three more chances including this year, and he would have two. More chances to be pulled to our death.

It wasn't a pessimistic thought. More so the truth. District twelve hadn't had a victor in nearly twenty five years. Not to mention the only _living_ victor we have had in the history of all seventy four hunger games, has yet to train another from our district to succeed him. The Hunger Games was merely a guarantee of a double funeral, every year.

Putting aside the morbid thoughts, I reached the cart where we would be placing the heavy bags of flour. Collin and Glenn were already heaving a few of the bags over to the cart to place them in. Glenn tossed one at me, and I caught it gently. If he wasn't more careful, or I wasn't paying attention, The bag would have split, and Peacekeepers would be here to shuffle us out within minutes. Its good that he and I have become good at this game. I never drop my guard, and I never drop the flour.

Once the cart is full, Glenn and I push it home. Collin waves us off, muttering about needing to do something before he comes home. We both know what's running through his mind, though, so neither of us say anything. If anyone in all of district twelve could worry themselves to death over the reaping, it would be Collin.

I looked up into the clouds, and felt suddenly very uneasy. The clouds swirled above our heads in a foreboding manner, and I felt that today, something was going to change drastically. Glenn was grunting in frustration at my distractedness, so I hitched up my handle of the cart and we made our way forward.

Glenn and I unload into the kitchen; six bags to my mother, six to my father. The flour lasts two to three days, and then we make the trip again. My parents have it down to a science most days, but don't account for the few days during the week where business increases. This doesn't happen too frequently, but when it does my mother is never quite prepared for it, and her rages become harsher. I hadn't ever really had to worry though, for during these times, I was usually in school or helping my father.

I walked into the heart of the bakery, where my father worked. He kneads bread on the counter, hard, slow curling of his fingers, working the ingredients together to make the bread that feeds many here in the district. I place two of the six bags on the side of his counter, and pat his back. My place here is with the pastries, though any day spent in the kitchen with my father is well spent. Glenn more often than not joins my father on days like today, so I head over to the next area over to take up my days work.


	2. Chapter 2

Today's treat is cookies.

They had become a favorite here in our shop many years ago, but I was always trying to improve upon them, make them more likely to be purchased. But not even just that. Liked, wanted. I loved to see the smiles on peoples' faces as they bit into the decorated sugar and savored the taste. It was like a piece of heaven where most people felt that it was like hell. It also appeases my mother, who strives to remind me that my work is best kept in the kitchen where it belongs.

After several batches have been carefully assembled, my mother arrives to wrap them. She has pulled together small, glistening translucent bags to place the cookies, in trios, into. As rough as my mother could be at times, she was just as artistic in a way that no one really saw. She arranges the bows neatly at the top of each bag.

Our work is marked in silence for most of the morning, even into the business hours. No one arrives though, and my mother becomes frisk, realizing that, soon, she'll have to face it. There's no way around it. She has to face it, like every other parent today. She may lose one of her own.

"I have your clothes set out." She finally says. Her voice is quiet, broken. Her gaze avoids my own. "You and Collin best get ready." I can tell, despite my mothers forced hardness, she is struggling not to cry. Moved, I wrap my arms around my mother, gently, and lightly squeeze her shoulders. It is the only comfort I can give to her.

"I will mind Collin." I say, allowing her some space. Time to really gather herself together. It's the same every year. In three years, she'll never have to think about it again. Or perhaps, that's all she will ever think about. I don't know. I cannot fathom what parents think about when their children become of age.

Perhaps that they never should have born them at all? Perhaps cling to the hope that there is hardly a chance that their child would be chosen? Maybe that, all in all, they can't look at their children, like my mother cannot bear to look at us. It's too hard to become attached to something that you may not have too long.

Like trying to keep a canary in a cage. It has to be free, to fly and spread its wings in the air like it was born to do. To flutter in the sky, without a wonder or a care. I suppose that, in lue of things, I should feel that, should I ever get married, I should avoid having children for that very reason. However, I just can't see a future without watching a child grow up, play and love, like I was able to do my whole life.

I would feel better about just letting the canary free.

I try our room first, but Collin's clothes are untouched, as are my own. I don't take a second glance, but head straight for the stairs to find out where he'd gone to.

It didn't take long to locate him. He sat between our little shop and the next, face down, pulling up clumps of grass. His face is blank, his demeanor slightly sullen. I crouch down in front of him, and tilt my head to look at him. He doesn't pay me any mind.

"Hey, the reaping is in an hour. We have to get ready." I tell him. He doesn't look up at first. In fact, he doesn't look up for a long time. When he does, he looks me straight in the eyes and I feel that fear. He doesn't hide it well at all, and the distress is clear on his face. His blue eyes bore into my own, and I don't look away.

"There's always this feeling…" He starts to say, his hand knotted in a clump of earth. "Like today might be the day that begins the end of my life." He pauses and looks down at his hands. I think of my own and know what he is thinking. Could these hands that have hardly done anything close to kill, end the life of another human being? My thoughts grow cold, because I know the answer. No. No we could not.

"I know it's unlikely," He continues slowly. "But I can't help feeling like today's different. _This_ reaping, is different." I don't know quite what to say to that. So I grasp my brother's shoulders, holding his gaze.

"Have faith." I say. But I can feel the hypocrisy behind my words. My faith is so high above my head it's unreasonable. Unreachable. Just like another thing that I try to put to the back of my mind…

"Your name will not come out of the reaping this year." I tell him. Positive. Optimistic. Collin needs these words to convince him it isn't all in vain. He does this every year. And every year, I comfort him. I wait. It takes a few moments, but color returns to his cheeks, and he stands.

It's almost surreal, preparing for the reaping. Like prettying a lamb for the slaughter. My blue shirt is tucked neatly into my trousers. Buttoned to the collarbone. Shoes cleaned of all flour and dirt. I brush my hands down the front of my shirt and run my fingers through my partially dried hair.

I avoid looking into the mirror as I walk out of my room and head down the stairs. I feel that, if I look into it, I will be acknowledging the fear that I feel. Not just for myself. Or even just for Collin. But also for whatever poor female is chosen this year.

Females naturally have a harder upbringing here in the Districts. Most female tributes, die within the first hour of the games. If not the first hour, the first day. I can only recall about eight games, but I had yet to see a female, or male even, in most cases, survive the initial bloodbath.

Twelve is always decimated before the final day of the Hunger Games.

My father intercepts me in the hall on my way out the door. Collin is waiting outside already and Glenn is kneading away. My father has abandoned his work for a short period of time, for what reason, I am not sure. Then he hands me a small, warm piece of bread. I take in its warm aroma and smile. Fresh bread. A treat even for the baker's son.

"Is Collin ready?" I ask, already knowing he is. I ask merely for my fathers benefit. He grunts slightly and nods his head to the door.

"Yes," He says gruffly. "awfully skittish today. Your mother's tending to him as we speak." I sigh. Collin, though older than me, is less prepared for death than I am. Although my thoughts turned this way, only out of my inability to think positively of myself.

The journey to the square seemed especially long in the odd humidity that had settled in today. The droves of children follow both behind me and in front of me, getting in lines to get blood checked. Merely a small thing for the Capitol, to ensure all of their intended prey, or audience, as I suppose they called it, was present for the day's festivities.

The square is crowded, more than usual this day. There are older folk lining the street where the canaries and being caged, separated by gender and age. I pass a few snide gamblers, while in line for the census, who are preparing to make their bets early. I suppose most of them have already seen some of the other reapings. The games were just an avenue for greed, a pave way for bloodlust. I turned away in disgust, unable to keep from thinking horrible things about the Capitol as I strode forward.

They pricked my finger quickly and I shuffled over to the "MALE 16" Sign, where more boys my age were huddled in ranks, each trying to hide behind one another, as if by hiding, they would be protected from the imminent hand that could pluck their name from the goblet. There are approximately forty of us or so in all, and we are by far the largest age group gathered thus far.

I am looking around to see if I can spot Collin when I lay eyes on her. Her hair, so dark and glistening in the sun, is arranged on her head in a delicate swirl of braids. Her eyes, even from this distance, glow a distant gray, almost like silver in the twilight. Her face is composed, calm. However her shoulders are rigid and she looks about stiffly. I realize she is looking for someone and my eyes leave her when she trains her gaze to the group behind her. I find myself looking back to see a small girl, her blond hair pulled into pigtails and her blue eyes wide in terror. It is Primrose Everdeen.


	3. Chapter 3

My heart drops into my stomach, it seems, and I don't tear my eyes away. I can't believe it.

Katniss Everdeen.

Her face is wary. Does she sense the strong sense of foreboding in the air? Does she feel my gaze probing her while she watches her sister helplessly? I don't know the answer to these questions, only that she's here. And within my field of sight.

A mulled silence falls on the crowd and I feel my palms slicken with sweat. The mayor, looking nervous and making darted glances at the chair next to Effie Trinket, district twelve's Reaper, before he puts his mouth to the microphone and begins to speak.

His speech is the usual, long and winded. But more seriously, is about the history of Panem. I ponder momentarily what it must have been like, before Panem rose from the "ashes of North America". What the people were like. Did they train young children to kill one another? Did they use their power to punish those weaker than them? Was it a dictatorship of destruction and chaos?

Our history has no record of these things, and even if it did, it's likely the Capitol keeps it well hidden from the general public. That way no one gets any funny ideas, I suppose.

Because of my daydreaming, I miss most of the speech the mayor is giving, only tuning in when he begins to mention the names of previous victors. Our first victor, the mayor explains, was the winner of the third annual hunger games. He had passed away long before I was born, so it made little difference to me what games he'd won. Our current victor, Haymitch Abernathy, as if on cue, stumbled onto stage at the calling of his name.

Immediately I groan in protest. He is very drunk, and looks entirely sloppy. Again, embarrassing our district in a way only he can. He sinks into the chair next to the stationary miss Trinket, and an awkward applause is started.

I decide to take this moment to glance over at Katniss again. She is still sneaking glances back at her sister, very quickly, and then mostly paying attention to the scene up at the stage. I can't help but feel like I should be doing something to get her attention, which is a strange thought, because I've only ever had one real interaction with Katniss.

At any rate, I turn my attention back to the podium where Effie now stands, looking a tad bit ruffled, but altogether excitable.

Most of the district can't stand her. Not just for the fact of her Capitol upbringing, but also for her obviously oblivious nature in choosing the children, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, cousins and friends, that will fight and ultimately die in the name of the Capitol's sick twisted treaty. It was no secret that some districts, namely 2, trained early on, seeing the win as a glory that should not be passed up. It wasn't supposed to be allowed, but the Capitol overlooked it in their case.

She clears her throat in what is to be assumed to be a lady like manner, and then proceeds to say, as she does every year, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She turns to smile at the mayor and then back at us, her unassuming prey.

"It is such a wonderful honor to be here among the wonderful youth of this district, in order to choose two lucky victors to participate in these games! It is a wonderful privilege for our young participants, for a chance at such glory and fame!" I tune her out at this point. We all know she just wants to get out of our district. We seem to be the only one that has drunken men molesting her on stage. Ah well. It is what it is. But she has finished her little speech and has moved onto the main event: The reaping.

I close my eyes and begin to pray. Hard. I don't want Katniss' name to be chosen. As horrible as it is, I'm hoping someone else, anyone else, is chosen instead of her. I know I couldn't bear it if I had to watch her on live television, hacked up by some crazed teenager, and attend her funeral, out of place among those who know her so much better than I.

The din of the chat within the crowds has become non-existent, and everyone looks up anxiously at the screens. Effie smiles, and approaches the giant orb that contains the girls' names.

My heart drops and my palms are pressed hard against my legs, as Effie begins, "Ladies First!" I count.

I'm not sure what to think. I know Katniss has done the Tesserae. She provides for her family that way. I also know that her name is in there at least a dozen, if not more times. A risk, to take care of her family. What would they do without her, if she was chosen, if she died? The world seemed so cold suddenly, and it was almost painful. The thought of a world without Katniss.

I mean, I myself shouldn't give way to such talk. I've never so much as spoken a word to her. However, she captivates me. I cannot breath without knowing somewhere, she is there, safe. Alive. Singing.

No, I've never been close to Katniss Everdeen. But if her name was chosen among the hundreds, even thousands there… I never would.

Effie's hand dunked into the deep bowl to fish out a name. The district as a whole, held its breath, awaiting the name that would inevitable create a rift of horror and sorrow.

I kept my eyes on Katniss, and it seemed that she, like the rest, was holding her breath. I heard the tell tale crinkle of unfolding paper, and then-

"Primrose Everdeen."

My initial reaction is relief. Sweet, sweet relief. Katniss has not been chosen to endure this horrible game of life and death. Immediately following this is horror. No. It's not Katniss. It's her little sister.

The little girl is even more fragile than her sister. Small bone structure, her blue eyes wide in terror. Her shoulders quiver and I see her shirt is slightly untucked at the back. She is taking stiff steps out of her penned area, and two peacekeepers come to lead her to the stage.

A lamb to the slaughter.

"Prim?" I hear Katniss call after a few moments. Whatever shock she had gone into, it had disappeared and reverted to panic, to feral rage. She was already breaking rank to intercept her sister.

"PRIM!"

It is customary for shock, sorrow, even weeping when a sibling is chosen. There is never a scene such as this. I move to try to intercept Katniss, to tell her there's nothing she can do, but am left empty. For the moment I just begin to break rank, she shoves her sister behind her and screams the words that just begin to make my world go black.

"I Volunteer!" She cries. "I volunteer as tribute!" A collective gasp goes through the crowd and a hush falls on the square. There is no such thing as a volunteer as tribute in District Twelve. It is a declaration of suicide.

"Lovely!" Effie Trinket's voice breaks through the haze that clouds my mind. I can't believe it. Katniss Everdeen. Effie is talking about something to do with rules but no one pays her any mind. The mayor looks downright sick as he beckons Katniss to the stage, telling Effie to allow her to come forward.

Primrose Everdeen begins to scream, hollering that her sister shouldn't go, can't do this. I don't make much sense of it I'm so disoriented. I do notice Katniss brush off her sister, her expression unreadable. Then I see Gale, coming out of nowhere, who heaves her over his shoulder like a bag of flour, and, after a quick word or two to Katniss, heads back to deposit her sister to her mother.

I don't blink. My mind is blank. Katniss Everdeen, the only girl in all of District Twelve who could hold me in such captivation, has sentenced herself to death.

Her walk to the stage is strong. She climbs the stairs and is rushed over to Effie's side, whom holds the microphone to her face in a cheerful sort of manner.

"Well bravo! That's the spirit of the games! What's your name?"

Katniss is hesitant, knowing the whole district, and those in the capitol, are watching her, wondering about her. She has captivated them all.

"Katniss Everdeen." There it is; it's final. Effie claps her hands together in excitement.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister!" She says, her high pitched voice trilling. "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

No one does. I touch my hand to my lips and find the three forefingers leaving it to rise in the air with the thousands of others that are now rising. It is an old gesture in Twelve, one to say goodbye to someone respected, someone loved; someone who is going to die.

Suddenly I am very afraid. What will happen when the male tribute is chosen? Will he be the one to kill Katniss? To snap her frail neck, or to stab her in the back as she runs away? Will he be a young child, like Prim, unable to defend himself, totally and utterly at the mercy of the Games? Will Katniss try to protect them, and inevitably die at the hand of a Career?

I think, suddenly, that it should be someone who can protect her. Ensure she comes home safe. But who would do it? Who would give up their life, to save hers?

Katniss wasn't well known for being kind. She was quiet, and very wary of people. Her father's death left a dent in her heart that no one, that I'd noticed, had begun to repair. She was a good hunter, though, and perhaps that, if anything else, would save her from the ruthless end that was almost a guarantee.

Haymitch staggers across the stage to meet Katniss. Immediately I become concerned, having seen his behavior with Effie.

"Look at her. Look at this one!" His voice is loud, booming, and it becomes very clear just how drunk he is. He throws an arm around her shoulders and I feel a slight twinge of something go through my body. I don't pay much mind to it.

"I like her! Lots of… Spunk!" He pauses and then releases Katniss, whom looks relieved to be out of his clutches. But to his credit, Haymitch then points at the cameras and says, "More than you! More than you!"

We all are aware of Haymitch's… habits. But this is something else. He seems to be directing it at the capitol, almost as if to goad them. However almost as quickly as he earns the respect and awe, he loses it, tripping off the stage and into unconsciousness. That was short lived. I look back to Katniss.

Then, I ask myself. If someone that I knew would kill Katniss was chosen, would I volunteer? Volunteer to take his place, to protect her?

I thought hard about it. I've been harboring such a love for Katniss for so long… It would only seem right that she lives. Even if it meant the deaths of twenty three others. Even if one of them had to be me.

I decide that I would. I know I'm terrified of it, but I would want to. I'd want to ensure she came home. Her family needs her. Mine would not miss me.


	4. Chapter 4

Effie seems to have regained her drive, because she says, "What an exciting day! But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" And here comes the moment of truth. It can only be one of two options. It will be a male who could kill Katniss, or it will be a boy that will not be able to last past the first day.

I continue to contemplate volunteering when Effie reaches into the boys bowl and pulls out another slip of paper.

"Peeta Mellark."

Or perhaps, there was a third option. It seems fate decided for me. I would die. Die for the entertainment of a thousand people. Die as a player in a never ending game. But most of all, I would die in an arena with the girl that I could swear I love.

I shift out of ranks, the surprise still evident on my face. I do not bother to control my expression. It will do me no good here. It will be better if they do not understand where my real thoughts are headed, where I will be in just a few moments. I can't look at Katniss now. I can't look at anyone. I've been chosen to play these games, and play them I will. They started the moment my name was chosen. And I will not disappoint.

I feel as if my senses have been turned off. I vaguely hear Effie ask for volunteers, but I know there will be no one. I am on my own. As it must be.

I don't know how Katniss climbed the steps so fluidly. I feel sick and so disturbed I am almost sure that I will collapse. But, somehow, I make it the stage, only to become struck dumb. Effie turns to Katniss and shifts her so she and I are facing one another.

I look straight into her gray eyes and find myself mesmerized. I cannot look away. And she does not avert her gaze.

We are required to shake hands, and so I hold out mine to greet hers. Her hands are soft, gentle. But her eyes, they're cold. It's like she has shut off, made herself dead to the world. Perhaps it's better this way. I wouldn't know. I can't bear to shut anything off, when it is all that is keeping me from screaming.

I gently squeeze her hand, knowing it is probably more for my benefit than for hers. An emotion crosses her face. I take that as a sign to relinquish my grip. It is too early for me to tell just what she's thinking. But, I do not want to be her enemy. And I do not want her to think that I am.

It is now that something comes to the forefront of my mind, something that I have been pushing back into the dark recesses of my brain. An event that sealed my fate, it seems. An event that five years could not erase. An event that made me realize that I would never want another person, and that this was somehow meant to be.

It was cold. Raining. For late April, this was usual weather. However the chill in the air was unmistakable, and the mere gust from incoming customers had been enough to make me shake, even as I stood before the oven, carefully pulling out loaves of bread. My mother was helping customers wrap their bread and pay, while I made sure nothing burned, and that nothing became soiled. Every product was important. It all earned money that would keep us fed.

Eleven at the time, I wasn't overall too concerned with the business, but I liked to decorate things. I suppose that's why my mother kept me there. I was very good at making things appear as if they were real. Roses on a cake that couldn't possibly just be made of frosting. Small trails of icing that swirled in gentle patterns around the corners. Small buttons on gingerbread. Anything that kept me out of my mother's path of wrath was to me, a sure worth of my time. And I found, as I did it more, that I actually enjoyed it.

That afternoon had been especially busy, and my mothers temper, naturally short, was already on its last fuse. I wasn't going quite fast enough for her. And because Collin was sick, and Glenn was out with Father, it was just her and I managing. This was not to her liking and she made it quite clear that it wasn't time for me to make a mistake, lest I wanted a punishment that would make me regret it immediately. So I did what I could, following her lead and keeping her busy so that her anger could not be directed at me.

But at some point, she had seen something out of the corner of her hawk like eyes and had run outside to find out what it was. I followed, unable to contain my curiosity. My mother was bearing down on a young girl my age, with brown hair and gray eyes. It immediately struck me. It was Katniss Everdeen. The singing girl. The girl that I had never really talked to, but had had sort of a crush on for several years.

What had she been doing here? I saw her place the lid back on our garbage and back away as my mother threatened to call the peacekeepers, and suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. Call the peacekeepers? On her? What for? She was just hungry! I felt angry at my mother for speaking to her that way. But Katniss was afraid. She bolted away and my mother huffed angrily, heading back inside to help whatever customers she'd left unattended. I stood still, watching as she deposited herself beneath a tree. She was soaked through, her whole body trembling with cold.

I followed quickly. I had to work fast, or my mother would catch on to what I was doing. But I couldn't bear to see the singing girl starve, looking for food in empty bins on the street.

My mother would notice if I took anything though. It didn't take me long to spot two loaves of bread sitting precariously close to the fire on the edge of the table. If I just accidentally bumped into it and they happened to get ruined by falling into the fire…

I decided then to do it. I grabbed a tray and pulled three or four loaves onto it, and hastily "bumped" into the table, driving the two loaves into the fire, effectively burning the outside.

I pulled them out quickly, preserving the insides, and put them on the table. I knew I would get hit for this, but I didn't care. I brought them to my mother.

"Mother, what am I to do with these? Put them on the shelf?" Her eyes bulged at the blackened crusts. She knew I'd burned them. The rage in her face swelled and I braced myself for whatever she was going to hit me with.

Sure enough, she grabbed a metal mixing utensil and started screaming. I closed my eyes and held fast to the two loaves of bread. The blow was quick but it stung worse than any other I'd ever had. I felt as if she'd broken something in my face, but I couldn't bear to let her see she'd hurt me so bad. She was still screaming when I came to my senses, the stinging at least manageable.

"What am I to do with them then?" I ask, as politely as I can manage. I already know what her answer is going to be, but I ask so that she is deceived into thinking this was all an accident.

"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature!" She hollered. "Why not? No one decent will buy burnt bread!" I quickly turned heel to exit the shop and head to the trough, hoping Katniss was still there, hoping I wasn't too late. It would all be worth it if she got these.

I found myself unable to feel upset about what my mother said to me. She was always so cruel, and I was always on her bad side. I was just lucky she hadn't tried to take the hot coal iron to me.

To make it look like I was following orders, I peeled off the crusts little by little to feed to the pig. She wouldn't need the crust anyway. I glanced her way to make sure she was still there, and sure enough, she was looking my way, her eyes wide, and I knew she yearned to have them.

I tossed the first bread loaf, stripped of its blackened crust, and it landed about a foot from her feet. Her gaze dropped to it and I smiled slightly. I tossed the second piece and shuffled inside before my mother came out to check my progress.

Thinking back to this day made it clear to me. I would never feel that way for another person. I had been brought up by my mother to despise the seam, its people, its starvation. But I could not ever bear to hate the girl that captivated me with her gray eyes. I would never, and from that point on I knew I loved her.

Even on that next day at school, when I couldn't meet her eyes but once; she chose a small dandelion and placed it close to her heart. I felt that, even if it was infinitesimal, I had let her know I cared.

I was vaguely aware of the anthem playing, and then I was shuffled forth into the Justice Building.


	5. Chapter 5

This was most likely the hardest point of the Hunger Games. Saying goodbye. The put the tributes in a room, and gave them about an hour to get out any last things they felt needed to be said before they were shipped to the capitol and never seen again. One hour to say goodbye. I couldn't help but feel spite biting up to my lips.

I'm deposited into one of the most luxurious areas I've ever seen. The carpet had to have costed thousands. There was a long lush couch that I was afraid to sit on, and a few equally expensive chairs. There is only one window and its not big enough to even get my shoulders through. As if I could escape anyway.

It's like a prison, really. A comfortable, lovely prison. It's because the capitol disapproves of escaped tributes. They think it's an honor to participate in the murder of your fellow human beings. I suppose they can't fathom why we'd _want_ to escape.

An hour. I already know I won't use it all. My family will not be very good at this goodbye. As far as my mother is concerned, I do not exist but to help decorate cakes. My brothers are hardly ever around. I can expect a lot of silence from my father. I still love them all, of course. But I can't see them making it anything but short and to the point.

My brothers enter first. Both look ashamed, brooding. I can't hold it against them, nor would I want to. I just hope whatever they have to say to me, they intend to make it brief.

"Well Peeta…" Glenn says. "Guess luck just wasn't on your side this time." I know he means it as a jibe, a way to get my spirits up; but we all know it's futile. The only way I'll be returning to District Twelve is in a pine box. The air is thick with a disturbing heat that fills my entire being. I feel like I might choke. Glenn and I are only so close, but he does know a few things; like my crush on Katniss, like my desire to get out of the family business and work with paint. Things that the rest of my family find trivial.

Collin steps up and holds out his hand to shake mine. I take his hand in mine, and for the first time, it really hits me how different we really are.

Although we look almost the same, act the same, and dress the same… Collin could never bear to do this. He is not strong enough.

He looks me in the eyes and stares for a long moment.

"Don't give up Peeta." He says to me. "Fight them. And win. But…" He trails off. Glenn places a hand on my shoulder and the both look at me.

"Be yourself Peeta." Glenn finishes. "Don't be anyone but yourself." And to my surprise, he embraces me. So quickly I almost don't believe it. Then, they are gone. And I am alone.

The silence doesn't last long however, for my mother and father follow shortly after. My mother is not easy to see. My whole life, I've struggled with her, her beatings, her rages, her discontent for me. It has never been easy.

But now she's here. I don't say anything, just stare at both of them. I don't know what to say. _Well, I'll see you in the next life. Wish me a quick and painless end._

"She's a survivor that one." She says. I nod. I know Katniss will survive. Especially if I have anything to do with it. Katniss will come home, come home and take care of her family. They need her. I look to my mother again but she has stopped talking. My father does not speak either. For a few more moments, the silence is almost tangible. Then-

"Maybe we will finally have a victor this year." Her eyes were shining, and I saw that she was about to cry. For a moment, a swell of pride, hope, came about in my heart. Could she mean? But as quickly as it came it disappeared, and I realized who she was really referring to.

My own mother did not expect me to come home. But, why should she? I'm the "delicate" one of the brood. Not physically, that was Collin. But I was unwilling to do anything to hurt anyone else. Quiet, gentle Peeta. That's all that anyone ever really saw.

There's no use in fussing over how everyone sees me now though. So, knowing this is my last goodbye, I take my mother into my arms.

"I love you mother." I say. She sobs quickly and wriggles free. Unable to bear it anymore, she rushes out of the room. It is now just my father and I. For a few moments, he and I just look at each other. I can see the weariness behind his eyes. The frustration in his fists. The exhaustion in his shoulders. Then, unexpectedly, he embraces me, just as Glenn did.

I feel like a small child and it is now that I allow the fear to really take its toll on me. I sob into his arm, knowing I'm acting foolish, but I don't care. I'll be dead soon enough anyway.

My father doesn't speak. He just allows me to bury myself in the comfort of having someone close.

Once I'm done embarrassing myself to the fullest extent, I push away from him and look him square in the eye.

"I have a favor to ask." I say calmly. "It's about the little girl, Primrose Everdeen, Katniss' sister-" But I am cut off. His hand is held up and his eyebrows are lifted.

"I figured you would ask." He says. "I will do all that I can. But Peeta… do try to do something for _you_, for once." He smiles slightly and pats my shoulder. I smile back. This is how my father tells me he loves me.

I am alone now. I'm not really sure how to feel. Sad, scared, anxious, happy? I feel so many things all at once. There's no precedence to all of this. It's just a jumbled mix of separate emotions. Not all of it even makes that much sense. But it matters little, because the door opens again and I am surprised to see Primrose join me in my small prison room.

Had she already talked to her sister? It looked like it. Her eyes were puffy and her nose was red. She held her skinny limbs together, as if she might fall apart.

"Prim-" She embraces me quickly, and tears are suddenly pouring down her cheeks.

"I know I don't know you all that much." She says, hiccupping ever couple of words. "But, please, take this. And… Don't let Katniss fool you. She needs a friend. She just… She can't see it right now." She opens up my hand and puts in a small blue ribbon. I clasp it in my own and squeeze her shoulders gently.

"I know you are supposed to be enemies." She says to me. She doesn't bother to make any assumptions. She sees right through things. "But I can't help hoping _she_ wins. Please understand." I do. I place the ribbon in my pocket and pat her head.

"Keep a secret Prim?" She nods, sniffling. "I'm hoping she wins too. But don't worry, I'll keep her safe. I have to." She does not question it. The peacekeepers return and she sends one last fleeting glance my way, and then she's gone.

The next hours pass by too fast for me to really function fully. In fact, I take it upon myself to zone out most of the day, save for catching another look from Katniss, who clearly has seen that I have been crying my eyes out. But I can't find it in myself to care. I ignore it. It's best if Katniss does not know what I feel for her right now; what I promised her sister. She will find out my intentions soon enough.

We board a train that's luxury far exceeds that of the small room of the justice building, and once it begins to move, it confirms any suspicions I have of it being more expensive than anything I could ever imagine.

I am led to a room that I will be staying in during the travel to the Capitol. I am baffled by this easily, and awed; I've never had my own room, I've always shared with Collin or Glenn at some point. That fact led into another, and I realized this room was easily almost twice the size of my own, which is saying something, for we have been blessed with a generally large establishment for District Twelve standards.

I am told that I am entitled to utilize anything that the room contains. Clothes, food, bed, shower; and I don't think I'll have a problem taking advantage of all of it.

I take a shower quickly, and find myself unaccustomed, but most intrigued by the hot water and the lovely smells falling out of the faucet. It takes me several minutes to get past my excitement of trying all of the buttons, feeling like a child again, before I finally settle in and finish washing up, feeling possibly cleaner than I had my whole life.

However upon jumping out and changing, I find myself unwilling to pull on new clothes, preferring to wear what I came in. It wasn't terribly dirty anyway. No harm done. I am not quite ready to become one of them so easily. It will be different upon getting to the Capitol. I have no choice there.

On my way out the door I run straight into a Capitol attendant, who it seems has come to retrieve me for supper. I allow him to lead me on and on my way, find myself in the face of none other than a very drunk Haymitch Abernathy. He pushes past me hastily and I notice he has a green tinge to his skin. He mumbles something about taking a nap and continues on down the hallway.

I walk into the dining room and am again struck in awe. The dishes are made of crystal clear diamond like glass, large decorated porcelain bowls, fancy metal utensils placed meticulously around the table. There are four places set.

I choose a seat nearest the window, and find myself gazing out it as the country side flies by. We're going by much too fast for my liking so it is not long before I turn away in haste, not wanting to get sick.

I touch a plate tentatively, as if at any moment it might disappear. For all I know, it might. Did the Capitol do this to lure us into a false sense of security? Or are they trying to be kind, let us have even the finest luxury before our imminent death? Or perhaps try to get us to transition smoothly, should we actually be victorious?

Perhaps, I'd never know.


	6. Chapter 6

I didn't have to wait long before my intended company filed in. I turn to get a good look at my crush, and soon to be enemy. Her hair is wet, but she has left it up in the style that it was placed in for the reaping. It makes her hair look like black silk, braided and gleaming upon her head like a crown.

She, unlike myself, had settled into whatever she found comfortable out of the closet of clothes they had offered to her; a green blouse most befitting of her complexion, and dark pants. I don't miss the glint of gold on her chest and recognize it as a pin, one she was wearing when we left the justice building, and as I look at it more closely, it seems even more familiar…

"Where's Haymitch?" Effie's trilling voice asks, breaking through my thoughts. I turn away from Katniss and turn my attention to our Capitol guide.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap." I say, trying to keep the condescension out of my voice. I see Katniss leave Effie's side to pull out the chair directly across from me. She sat fluidly, and I looked to analyze her expression. She was calm, collected. She controlled her emotions to a tee. I can hear the relief in Effie's voice when she takes her place next to Katniss and says, "Well, it's been an exhausting day."

Dinner is like none other. The food is so rich and abundant, and I can hardly pace myself, though I do manage at least slightly better than Katniss, whom refuses to let even one bit go unfinished. I chuckle under my breath slightly, trying not to let her see it. She most certainly is one of a kind.

At some point, however, Effie makes a comment that, in other company, might have been paid as a compliment. Though, this is not the case between Katniss and I, who are both highly insulted by it. Though, I have to be impressed at Katniss; She determinably finished her meal in a "barbaric" fashion, making Effie understand, though we are all different, we are still all one people.

Upon completion of the meal I feel both amazingly well fed, and disgustingly sick. I remind myself next time to pace myself better. No need to lose my lunch over the fact that I can't slow down.

Although its not mandatory, I'm sure some tributes in the past have refused it before, we are lead to a small compartment to watch the other reapings. To have our initial meeting with our soon to be murderers.

I don't find much stock in watching the picking of children. Here and there, a few tributes stick out in my head, but mostly, I just watch Katniss, who is hugging her arms to her chest, watching with wide eyes as a girl, same age as her sister, is reaped among hundreds, if not thousands of young ones. I am baffled by the size of their population.

I watch as the girl climbs the stage, and no one sounds to take her place. It is as silent as death, and I feel my heart grow cold. I suddenly feel angry. The injustice of it all blinds me to anything else. And it is this little girl, being so much like Prim, except, with no one willing to take her place, that I decide it.

I will not be a part of these games. Not in the way they think. They will see me die; as Peeta Mellark. And I _will_ die. Because I will do what no one else could do, what no one else would ever think to do. I will ensure the victory of Katniss Everdeen. No matter what it takes.

I will make the Capitol see _me._

I tune back in for district twelve's reaping. It is strange, to see Katniss as the camera's saw her. Her eyes wide, movements almost feral. I, in comparison, seem calm, collected, bored even. All but for my eyes, which betray my shock, my fear.

The program ends and Effie huffs, apparently miffed that her wig had been displaced on public viewing. I swallow back a laugh patiently.

"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

I don't bother to hold back a laugh now. I know it's unexpected, but I can't help it. Effie's being rather ridiculous.

"He was drunk." I say, knowing full well this information will not surprise her. "He's drunk every year."

"Every day." Katniss pipes in. This sobers me up quickly. She's barely spoken since coming here. She smirks and I grin back. I find it hard to wipe the smile off my face, even against Effie's obvious chagrin and anger.

"Yes," Effie's voice now resembles that of a snake, and her body goes rigid. "How odd that you two find it amusing." What did she mean? Of course it was amusing. Haymitch was something of a joke to us all, a fool among victors.

"You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!" And it hits me then. We can poke fun all day long. But if Haymitch can't sober up, our fates are sealed.

As if on cue, Haymitch stumbles in, his face a sickly green.

"I miss supper?" His voice is gravelly and his words are slurred. I'm not even sure he's aware of where he is, or what he's doing. Seconds later, whatever was in his stomach comes spewing up and onto the floor, and then he proceeds to fall into it. I flinch.

"So laugh away!" Effie finishes, running out of the room as quickly as possible.


End file.
